Monsters & Machines
by Best Damn Avocado
Summary: Sherlock Holmes and Natasha Romanoff meet in Siberia, and in each other find a kindred spirit.
1. Chapter 1

_"_ _Back to Baker Street, Sherlock Holmes."_

Sherlock crumpled to the floor in a heap of torn flesh and sore muscle the minute the chains fell away. Cold seeped through the thin fabric of his dirty trousers, making him curl in on himself and shiver. He was sore and tired and hungry. His hair was a mess of greasy curls and his head was pounding—but good God, he'd never been so relieved to see his brother.

"Status?" He heard Mycroft say. He lifted his head. Mycroft's back was turned to him, but he could see he held a phone to his hear and his hand to the door. "Good, because we're done here. Sherlock needs a coat." He peeked at him over his shoulder. "And shoes."

"Who'd you bring with you?" Sherlock spoke once Mycroft tucked his phone into his coat pocket. "Who could you possibly trust enough to bring with you for _field work_?"

Mycroft opened his mouth as if to answer, but the door opened a beat too soon and a redhead dressed all in black slipped inside, carrying a large bundle of clothes. "These should work until we get to the safe house," she spoke quietly. "I've got a truck outside ready to go. We don't have much time."

Her eyes flicked momentarily in Sherlock's direction, a shade of green easily confused with blue under the dim lighting. He blinked twice and she'd disappeared, a blur of red and black sliding out the door. She left it open in her wake.

"Let's go." Mycroft approached and reached out as if to help him to his feet, but Sherlock brushed him off and scrambled up himself. He barely looked up when he snatched his clothes from Mycroft's hand.

"Who is she? She's not one of yours." He slipped hastily into his stolen clothes. They were made for a broad man much shorter than himself, but they'd do. The boots were a tight fit. He looked up when Mycroft didn't answer. "Well?"

"We don't have time for a long explanation. She owes me a favor and she's here to help, that's all you need to know." Mycroft reached the door and nudged it open a little further. "Are you ready?"

Sherlock followed him out without a word, noting the half naked guard lying prone on the ground at the entrance. His ear buds were still in his ears but his iPod lay dark and smashed a short distance away. He stepped over him without remorse and secured the coat around his own body.

As many as fifteen people lay similarly strewn about the place, most of them dead. Sherlock made deductions as he went. He noticed the thin red line at some of their throats. _Garrote_. Three of them had ugly red splotches on either side their necks, but they were alive. _Electrocution_. Two sported fatal knife wounds. Five of them deep gashes where the skin had broken from being hit with a heavy metal object. _Pipe, maybe._ All in all, Sherlock surmised only four of them would survive if they got immediate medical help. _Unlikely_.

His brow was furrowed by the time they exited the building, eyes narrowed against the brisk wind cutting at every bit of exposed skin. A truck idled a short distance away, with the unnamed redhead tucked inside behind the wheel. Her hair was tied back neatly in a long red ponytail that swept down and curled around her shoulder when she turned to look their way. "Tick tock," she called over.

Sherlock pushed past Mycroft to climb inside truck and soon they were all bumping along a trail in the woods, presumably on their way to a main road. She didn't say anything, but she did peek at him using the rearview mirror. Mycroft chose to turn in his seat. "Any serious wounds?"

"None that can't wait," he answered tightly. "Where's the safe house?"

"Near the Hungarian border," she finally spoke. "Not too far from where we are now. I'm estimating about an hour of travel time once we get on the main road."

They rode in silence after that. Sherlock had questions, but those could wait. He knew Mycroft wouldn't have bothered with field work unless there were pressing circumstances. He was half convinced he'd been enjoying the show, watching him get beaten unconscious.

Close to an hour and a half later, the safe house emerged at the end of a long dirt road fenced in on both sides by tall trees. There was nothing remarkable about it. The design was simple and straightforward, the very definition of functionality.

Sherlock slipped away to shower and change as soon as they stepped inside. He didn't bother with the scruff on his face, instead plopping into a weathered old kitchen chair once he'd donned clean clothes. Mycroft set a bowl of soup with a side of bread in front of him and Sherlock all but inhaled the first bit of nourishment he'd seen in well over a week. The soup was scalding and it burned the roof of his mouth. He ignored his brother's tut of disapproval.

"Extraction team will be here in eight hours," he heard him say. "I suggest you get some rest."

Sherlock didn't look up. "When can I expect a briefing?"

"Briefing?" Mycroft's expression was blank when Sherlock looked up.

"Yes, you've got a job for me. It's why you came." He narrowed his eyes. "Are we going to pretend this was all an outburst of brotherly compassion? Because I think we skip the pretense."

Mycroft looked away. "I'll brief you once you've been suitably taken care of in London. You need a doctor."

"I have a doctor," he retorted.

"Yes, and he thinks your dead. I've arranged for you to see mine."

"Fine." Sherlock returned to his food.

"Mycroft," he heard the redhead's subtly husky voice say from the doorway. "Call for you."

"Yes, thank you. Sherlock, do stop to chew." Mycroft took the phone and disappeared from the room, leaving Sherlock alone with the redhead.

He looked her over but deductions were scarce. Her body spoke of a lifetime of grueling training, but he already knew as much from having seen her handiwork back at the base. She'd taken her hair out of her ponytail so that it now hung in shiny red waves halfway down her back, but she wore no perfume, makeup or jewelry. Her demeanor was disciplined and controlled, and her expression deceptively casual. She was clearly used to being scrutinized without giving anything away.

Sherlock straightened in his chair and resumed eating when she sat across from him at the dining table. "You're good," he said between bites of bread.

"Is that a deduction or a compliment?"

"A deduction," he said. "It wasn't meant to flatter."

She sat back in her chair and crossed her legs at the knee. "Tell me," she prompted with a tilt of her head.

Sherlock dropped what was left of his bread on his plate and pressed his hands together in front of his lips. He should've been in bed already. His body certainly needed the rest. Every inch of him felt tired and sore, except for the familiar surge of energy that came with being presented with a challenge. He was curious. More than that, he was intrigued.

He set his elbows down on either side of his plate and held her gaze. "Even if I hadn't seen the trail of bodies you left back at the base, it wouldn't have been that much of a leap," he began. "You _must_ be good. This wasn't an easy job. You had to track me down. Go deep undercover. Smuggle your way up through the ranks. Survive. You'd have to be clever, resourceful and quick. Mycroft doesn't trust British agents in general, let alone foreign agents specifically. He has ties to the CIA but you're not CIA, are you? You're not even American. Not originally. He wouldn't have asked an agent for help unless it was absolutely necessary… and he wouldn't have asked _you_ in particular unless you were at the very top of your field," he spoke in his usual rapid fire way.

"You're wondering why I accepted the job," she interjected when he paused. "Why I'd risk life and limb for someone I clearly have no close ties to."

"A deduction of your own?"

"I have my moments," she said enigmatically.

His lips curved up at the corner. "Yes," he answered after a moment of consideration. "You're clearly not in this for the money. Mycroft wouldn't have trusted someone with his life and mine if there was a chance they could be tempted with a better offer from an enemy party. And you're not in it for the glory. This is not that kind of job."

"So what's your theory?" She leaned forward and crossed her arms atop the table.

Sherlock twined his hands together without breaking eye contact. "A favor," he concluded at the end of a long pause. "An old debt, perhaps. A score that needs to be settled."

"You're as good as your reputation."

"I'm still missing pieces of the puzzle."

"Such as?"

"Your name," he answered smoothly. "One really should know the name of one's savior."

"You didn't need a savior," she countered.

"And you are good."

"You're not so bad yourself." She smiled slowly. "Natalia Alianovna Romanova," she said. "Natasha Romanoff, nowadays."

"A pleasure, I'm sure."

"Likewise."

Mycroft cleared his throat from the doorway and both Sherlock and Natasha straightened in their chairs like they'd been caught conspiring.

"I have business to take care of tomorrow after we land and I need to be presentable, so I'll be taking the room upstairs," he announced. "Sherlock, do try to get some rest," he urged again.

Sherlock responded with little more than a nod and a hum, but Mycroft didn't ask for anything else. His brother stepped away from the door and not a moment later Sherlock heard his footsteps going up the stairs.

Natasha unfolded herself from her chair and rose to her feet. "There's another room down here," she told Sherlock on her way to the door. "I'll go find you a set of sheets while you finish."

Sherlock didn't linger more than a few minutes. He'd eaten just about all he could without making himself sick, and his body desperately needed the rest. Natasha had already made the bed by the time he found her.

The room itself small but adequate. Neat and clean, like the rest of the house. Sherlock sat heavily on the mattress when she signaled he could do so, and resisted the urge to collapse without another word.

"This is your safe house," he observed.

Natasha reached inside the closet to retrieve additional blankets. "One of them."

He studied her from behind and clasped his hands between his knees. "Thank you," he said quietly.

She walked over to the bed and set the stack of blankets beside him with a smile. "Something tells me those are rare words coming from you," she teased. "You're welcome." He bowed his head and his long mess of curls fell forward. "Get some rest," she added softly. "Gun's underneath the pillow and I'm just a call away if you need anything."

Sherlock waited until she'd stepped out of the room and closed the door before he fell back against the pillows, carefully curling up on his side. He'd been tallying up his injuries before Mycroft made his presence known back at the base. Cracked ribs were on his list. He thought about calling out for painkillers, but it suddenly seemed like too much effort. He blindly grabbed for one of the blankets instead and haphazardly pulled it over his body.

Halfway through the night, he was sweating and shivering in equal measure. He'd been tired enough that he should've slept the whole night through, but the painful memory of being beaten to a pulp and the injuries that came with it were still too fresh. He woke up from a nightmare screaming into his pillow.

Natasha's voice close to his ear startled him into silence. "Sherlock you're okay," she said quietly but firmly. "You're safe. No one's hurting you. Nothing's going to happen to you. You're okay."

Sherlock opened his eyes to find her pale green gaze and sleep rumpled curls hovering just above his head. She was sitting beside him on the mattress. Close enough to touch but not quite.

He swallowed hard. "Where's Mycroft?"

"I'm here," Mycroft answered quietly from the bedroom door.

"He tried to wake you up and you lashed out," she explained.

Sherlock understood. Natasha must've stepped in to save Mycroft from getting hurt. He closed his eyes. "Just a nightmare," he said tiredly. "I'm fine. Go back to bed, My."

Mycroft must've hesitated because Natasha spoke next, quiet but firm like before. "Go to bed," she repeated. "I'll wake you up if necessary."

Sherlock rolled completely to his back once he was sure Mycroft was gone and stared up at the ceiling. "What sort of debt would justify you taking care of Mycroft Holmes's violent little brother?"

Natasha shifted to sit with her back against the headboard and one of her legs tucked underneath. Sherlock scooted further away to make room. "I've already repaid my debt to Mycroft," she informed him. "This I'm doing because I like you." His turned his head towards her on the pillow and she winked. "Go to sleep," she added. "I'm not going anywhere."

He didn't immediately look away. "What makes you so sure I can sleep with you here?"

Natasha exhaled a tired laugh and turned her own eyes to the ceiling. "I'm not," she admitted barely above a whisper. "But you stopped screaming when you heard my voice."

Sherlock closed his eyes and breathed in, turning his broken body on his side to face her. He was close enough that his nose brushed against her thigh but she didn't move away. She smelled like gunpowder and leather.

He spoke one more time as he drifted off to sleep. "Maybe I like you too."


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock didn't see Natasha again for several months after parting ways with her in Siberia. Her lips had been soft on his cheek and her voice barely above a whisper in his ear. A promise to meet again. Sherlock didn't press her for details. He quite liked the mystery. And he had pressing matters of his own that he needed to settle in the meantime.

Upon his return to London, Mycroft briefed him regarding a terrorist plot British intelligence agents had uncovered in his absence. Sherlock was to get to the bottom of it as quickly as possible.

John wouldn't hear of it at first. He resented Sherlock for keeping him in the dark and allowing him to grieve for little over two years. Sherlock didn't entirely understand the source of John's grief, but he was determined to make amends. He'd missed his best friend too.

An attempt on John's life on November 4th gave them a chance to reconnect. On November 5th they were back to running side by side through London streets. Or underground tunnels as the need arose.

Sherlock suspected Mary had something to do with it too. She'd promised to talk John round and seemed determined to keep them together in spite of John's initial reaction. Sherlock wouldn't have said so out loud, but he was grateful.

Even so, Sherlock didn't tell John about Natasha. He wasn't sure what there was to tell besides their ongoing correspondence via text. Natasha had been undercover since January and Sherlock had resumed a portion of his previous caseload when he wasn't busy helping Mary with the wedding, but they still wrote to each other regularly. They'd simply been too busy to meet again again face to face.

Then around March, Sherlock lost communication with her completely. Natasha texted him frequently enough that when she stopped without explanation it raised an alarm. He'd been on the brink of reaching out to Mycroft when the story finally broke on the news. S.H.I.E.L.D. had been infiltrated by a terrorist organization known as HYDRA. Their secrets had been leaked for the world to see.

Sherlock watched the government inquiry on the morning news while he waited for John's arrival. He'd been receiving regular e-mails containing only one picture. A pearl. John seemed content to leave it alone but Sherlock couldn't resist the mystery. He needed to know.

Onscreen, Natasha was answering questions regarding events at the Triskelion. S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters in Washington D.C. He could tell from the way she shied away from moving her left arm that she'd been injured.

"I got another one of those e-mails," John called on his way up the stairs.

Sherlock didn't take his eyes off the screen. "Another pearl?"

He dropped into his chair across from him and opened his laptop. "Another pearl," he confirmed. "That's six of them now."

"I still don't know why they're e-mailing _you._ " Sherlock was missing his usual edge of annoyance.

John stopped typing long enough to look at him. "Are you all right, mate?"

"Hm?" Sherlock darted his eyes between John and the screen. "Yes, I'm fine. Why wouldn't I be?"

"You're not snapping at me like you were the other day on the phone," he said bluntly. "And, I don't know, you sound distracted." He resumed typing on his computer. "More so than usual."

Sherlock resisted the urge to shush him. "I'm watching the news."

John stole a glance at the television screen. Natasha had grown fed up with the inquiry and was now elbowing her way through a crowd of reporters berating her with questions. Sherlock clicked it off and exchanged the remote for his phone.

John eyed him over the screen of his laptop with his brows bunched together. "What's going on?"

"What makes you think there's something going on? There's nothing going on." Sherlock checked his messages but found no new ones from Natasha. He pocketed his phone.

John looked skeptical. "Right," he said dubiously. "Have you been experimenting on yourself again? You promised you'd tell me—"

"I am not currently experimenting on myself," Sherlock cut off his lecture and abruptly reached out to steal John's laptop from his lap.

John flailed his hands in exasperation and jabbed a finger at the desk. "Yours is right there."

"Yes, it's too far away." Sherlock closed the tab displaying John's e-mail account and opened a new one.

He already knew what he was going to do about the pearl pictures. The next step was easy enough. He needed to track the e-mail address to its source. Elementary. He just didn't have the resources at the flat. The person who could provide them would be busy until late in the afternoon. He still had a bit of time.

John moved over to stand behind his chair and leaned against the back, reading over his shoulder. "Why are you are you looking up Natasha Romanoff?"

Sherlock didn't answer. He wasn't sure himself why he was looking her up. Curiosity perhaps. More of that same intrigue he'd experienced from the very beginning. He liked her. He missed her texts. Whatever the reason, the ultimate result was the same. He wanted to know more.

She'd dumped the entirety of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s database on the internet. Thousand upon thousands of files. Her file was one of them and it was lengthy. He postponed a thorough read through and skimmed it instead.

By the time he'd finished, John had settled back into his chair with the morning paper. He looked up when Sherlock snapped the laptop closed. "Found what you were looking for?"

"In a manner of speaking." Sherlock rose to his feet and retrieved his coat and scarf on his way down the stairs.

John was close behind. "Do you know her?"

He knotted his scarf around his neck as he reached the bottom step. "Who?"

"Don't play that game with me. You _know_ who."

Sherlock burst through the front door and raised his hand to hail a cab without bothering to reply. John zipped up his jacket with an expression too smug for Sherlock's comfort.

"She's pretty," he said casually.

"She's beautiful by most social standards, yes. Why are you stating the obvious?"

"Why were you googling her?"

"I google a lot of things," he said evasively. "What's the matter with you?"

John clasped his hands behind his back while he waited. "It's okay to like her, you know."

"Duly noted." Sherlock opened the cab door when the vehicle stopped beside the curb and gestured for John to get inside.

"I'm just saying," he pressed as he climbed inside the cab, "aren't you even a little bit curious?"

Sherlock shoved his body inside the car and slammed the door closed behind him. "You're being insufferably chatty today."

They tracked the e-mail address sending the photographs to a warehouse in Wapping. Inside, they found the laptop used to send them—along with a dead body. Sherlock was thrilled. Their conversation was put on indefinite hold in favor of following the trail of clues.

John published the account on his blog a couple of days later as 'The Poison Giant', and that very same evening Sherlock received a text.

The number was unavailable and there was no signature, but he could make a deduction based on the content. _Come find me 309.6 meters high. I'll be the one in red._

Sherlock exchanged his dressing gown for a black suit and shirt, topping it with his coat and scarf on his way out the door. He took a cab to The Shard and within minutes found himself wandering through the observation deck on the 72nd floor.

London was a sprawling sea of lights beyond the glass walls partially enclosing the space. People wandered from corner to corner, sometimes stopping to peer through the digital binoculars lined up about the room.

Natasha was tucked into one of the glass-enclosed corners of the viewing gallery. Her blood-red trench over opaque black tights and knee-high boots stood out amidst the black and grey.

Sherlock cast bright blue eyes across the London view as he came to a stop beside her. "There are no less than three people here intending to propose." he spoke quietly. "One of them will be turned down."

Natasha stuffed her hands in her coat pockets. "The blonde," she said after a short pause.

"Cheating on her would-be fiancé with his best friend." He looked down at her with something close to a smile. "I've missed you"

Natasha returned the smile while turning to face him. "Feeling's mutual," she said. "Thanks for coming."

He noticed she was wearing makeup this time. Light blush and a layer of mascara. He caught a whiff of her perfume too. Expensive. He sniffed again and identified it as Clive Christian No. 1.

"You knew I would," he replied.

"Well I knew you'd be curious," she conceded. "You've seen the news?"

"Yes." Sherlock turned his eyes ahead.

Natasha lowered hers to the floor. "And you've read my history."

"What you leaked of it."

She was quiet another few seconds. "I didn't reveal everything when I went to work for S.H.I.E.L.D.," she said. "Some things are still secret. Things they couldn't have known unless I'd told them."

"I deduced as much."

"I still have to disappear," she continued. "At least for a little while. I've made a lot of enemies doing what I do and they're all smelling blood in the water now that S.H.I.E.L.D.'s officially out of the way."

"Naturally." He narrowed his eyes at the view and slowly turned to face her fully. "But you didn't bring me here to say goodbye, did you?"

"No…" Natasha smiled again and looked up at him while reaching out to grab his coat collar. "Not to say goodbye."

Sherlock pulled his fidgeting hands out of his pockets. "This isn't really—"

"Just follow my lead," she told him not a second before she caught his lips in a smoldering kiss.

Every move was hesitant and slow. His arm sliding possessively round her waist. Long fingers raking experimentally through her red hair. Natasha moved her hands from his coat collar to his chest and melted entirely into his embrace.

Sherlock scrambled to record every detail. Her impossibly soft lips. Her body shivering in his arms. He inadvertently lifted her from the floor with the arm round her waist in an effort to pull her closer, and heard her breath hitch in her throat.

By the time they stopped for breath, Sherlock didn't quite know what to say. Natasha filled the silence with a breathless ' _bozhe moi_ ' that he reciprocated by burying his face in her hair in hopes of recovering his composure with some measure of privacy.

His voice was pitched low. Breathless. "Not 'goodbye', then," he said.

Natasha exhaled a quiet laugh and spoke close to his ear. "More like 'hello'."


	3. Chapter 3

John and Mary Watson's wedding day arrived almost a full month after Sherlock's encounter with Natasha at The Shard. Preparations had taken up most of their time. The occasional case here and there. Perhaps most notably 'The Bloody Guardsman' and 'The Mayfly Man'.

Sherlock saw Natasha only twice during that time. She'd texted him regularly with updates. Often a morbidly humorous 'not dead' followed by a smiley face, referencing the hashtag made famous by his return from the dead. He found it somewhat endearing. Not that he would admit it.

The two times he'd seen her it hadn't been for more than a couple of hours at a time, similar to when they'd met at The Shard. Natasha was on the run from some very dangerous people and didn't want to risk his safety if it wasn't necessary. Sherlock wasn't one to shy away from danger but he understood.

He still missed her though. Without John taking up the usual space in his flat, the whole place felt empty. Lonely. John often visited with Mary but it simply wasn't the same. Sherlock was undoubtedly happy for his best friend. He approved of Mary. Liked her, even. He just couldn't get past the hollow emptiness that had taken him over.

Sherlock considered asking Natasha to move in with him. She'd gotten rid of most of her safe houses when she'd gone on the run, as well as her apartment in New York. She needed a place to stay. A home-base. It made perfect sense.

He'd known John no more than ten minutes before he'd agreed to be his flatmate several years previous. Natasha he'd known for several months already. And similar to John, he'd liked her instantly. Albeit in a different way.

Someone else might've been worried about the implications of living with a woman he'd snogged more than once, but Sherlock couldn't be bothered with such trivial considerations. He'd always known he was a man out of his time. Social convention meant very little to him if it made no logical sense.

He needed a flatmate and Natasha was available. There was no point in asking anyone else when there was a perfectly compatible candidate only a text away. Having made the decision, there was nothing left to do but make the offer.

The opportunity presented itself only days after he'd made up his mind. He'd only just stepped out of John's wedding reception and into the crisp night air, and he could still hear the music drifting out of the partially open door. Voices chattered over the heavy beat.

He took to the stone path with his hands in his pockets and caught sight of another figure heading his way. Short in stature. Feminine frame. Her gait was decidedly familiar. Graceful and fluid. He felt his lips pull up at the corner when a mane of wavy red hair caught the light of a nearby lamppost, followed by smiling lips and soft green eyes.

"Leaving so soon?"

"Weddings aren't really my thing," he quipped.

Natasha grabbed his hand when he was close enough to touch and twined their leather-clad fingers together. Sherlock still didn't entirely understand the purpose of holding hands, but they'd done it twice before and she seemed to enjoy it. He didn't mind.

They continued side by side towards the main road. "And here I was hoping I'd get a dance out of you," she said playfully.

"I suppose I could be convinced." He looked down at her. "Do I get to keep you for more than a couple of hours this time?"

"I suppose I could be convinced," she quoted and winked. "I actually have a proposition for you," she admitted. "Were you on your way home?"

Sherlock studied her for clues but her face gave nothing away. He was quite sure she was being purposefully enigmatic and it sparked his curiosity. Always that same intrigue. He turned his eyes ahead. "Yes I was," he answered quietly. "Will you be joining me?"

"If you don't mind the company."

"Not at all." Sherlock led her over to the car he'd borrowed from his brother for the day.

Mycroft's personal car was a sleek black Jaguar with matching leather seats. Sherlock was particularly fond of the purring engine underneath the hood. He was rarely allowed to borrow it, but that never stopped him from taking it out for the occasional clandestine spin. This time he'd asked for it several days in advance. He opened the door for Natasha when they reached it and slid into the driver's seat once she was tucked inside.

The drive from Bristol to London was little over two hours long and they caught each other up on their latest exploits along the way. Natasha was always inquisitive about his cases, and eager to hear of his continued studies in tobacco ash, perfume and, most recently, poisons.

She didn't mention her proposition again and he didn't ask. He was curious but he knew she would elaborate when she was ready. He deduced she would be within a couple hours' time, when they reached his flat. He could wait.

They arrived at Baker Street just after midnight. Sherlock removed his scarf while climbing up the stairs to 221B and his coat as he stepped into the dimly lit sitting room. Natasha did much the same with her black trench and draped it over the back of his couch.

She'd donned a shimmery black cocktail dress and shiny black heels for the occasion. Her arms and back were fully exposed but the hem just about grazed her knees.

Sherlock hung up his coat and scarf behind the door and reached up to loosen his tie. "You mentioned a proposition," he said without preamble.

"I did," she confirmed with the faintest of smiles. "Care to make a deduction?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact I would." Sherlock slipped the silk tie from around his neck and rolled it round his hand. "I'll just need a moment."

Natasha stepped forward to undo the first few buttons of his shirt and the deduction came within seconds. Her dress. Her dilated pupils ringed with green. Her offer to stay more than just a couple of hours. This was no ordinary visit. Natasha had gone to John's wedding reception with more than a quick conversation and a snog in the coat closet in mind. She'd come to spend the evening with him. His decision to leave early had simply derailed her plans. Although not by much. He'd scarcely blinked twice and she'd already tugged him down for a tender kiss.

Sherlock closed his eyes and furrowed his brow in concentration, hesitantly reaching up to cradle her head in his large hands. Her lips pulled away ever so slightly. "Got it?"

"I think so," he answered quietly. "It's—it's been a while."

"It's been a while for me too," she assured him. "Years, actually. I haven't been intimate with anyone since before I joined S.H.I.E.L.D."

He could deduce the reason but for once kept it to himself. "I can't promise I'll be any good."

"This isn't about that," she told him barely above a whisper. "I just want you."

Sherlock was undoubtedly curious. He'd set aside this part of his humanity for a reason but it was there. Safely tucked away in a corner of his mind palace where it wouldn't get in the way. Where he could ignore it if need be.

He wondered what it'd be like to explore it with Natasha. Natasha who saw him for who he was and accepted him. Natasha who intrigued him and challenged him and understood him. Who wanted him. Who trusted him. Natasha who'd seen him vulnerable and broken and hurting in Siberia, and had kept him safe.

Her lips met his one more time before she moved over to his laptop. Presumably to find a song they could dance to.

Sherlock followed her with his eyes. "Why?"

Natasha picked a slow song to start with and lifted her eyes to look at him. "I could give you a few reasons…" she began once she'd straightened, "but they all boil down to you being a remarkable man that I want to try something with. Something I haven't felt like trying in a very long time." Her steps were slow but purposeful as she came closer. "Something I didn't feel like trying until I met you."

Sherlock stared for several heartbeats. Calculating. Deducing. She offered one of her hands without breaking eye contact and Sherlock took it, pulling her into a slow dance as the song began in full. Natasha pressed her lips to his shoulder and silently swayed to his rhythm.

He bent his head low and dropped a grateful kiss just below her ear. "Yes," he decided quietly.

"You're sure?"

"Yes."

"We can stop whenever you want."

"Yes," he repeated a third time.

Natasha pulled back to meet his eyes and he swooped in to catch her lips in a slow kiss. Soft as ever but warmer. Every inch of her was warmer. Scalding. He gathered her body close to his chest and felt bare arms snake round his neck. Slim fingers tangle in his hair. Russian whispers against his lips.

" _Bedroom_ ," she requested.

They stumbled down the hallway to his room in a tangle of eager hands and fervent kisses, accidentally knocking over his beside lamp in the process. Natasha braced herself by fisting her hand in his shirt and laughed into their kiss.

"Your fault," Sherlock accused raggedly against her lips.

"Get a new one," she retorted.

" _You're_ buying me a new one."

"Deal."

Natasha's American accent had disappeared and a thick Russian lilt had taken its place. Her true speaking voice. Sherlock swept her off her feet with both arms around her waist and in one swift move tumbled with her to the bed.

"Your accent—"

"Yes," she interjected and caught his lips in another passionate kiss. "I can go on pretending if—"

"No," he quickly cut her off. "Don't pretend. It was only an—" Her lips wandered from his mouth to his jaw, and down his neck. "Observation," he finished with his eyes closed. "Never feel the need to pretend for my sake."

Natasha lifted her head to kiss his lips one more time. "Okay."

They spent the next few hours exploring each other slowly amidst breathless whispers and fervent touches. Sherlock's hands were hesitant and unsure but Natasha's were endlessly patient. He learned quickly.

They eventually stilled in each other's arms beneath the covers of his bed. Breathless and flushed and ultimately speechless. Sherlock pulled Natasha close to his side in lieu of conversation and dragged one of her legs over his hips, tracing gentle patterns on her thigh with his fingertips.

Natasha dropped her head on his shoulder and closed her eyes. "Are you okay?"

Sherlock breathed deeply. "I'm not entirely sure 'okay' is the proper descriptive term," he said quietly.

Natasha's eyes opened halfway and he turned his head to meet them. Her voice had just the faintest edge of vulnerability. "Do you regret it?"

"Not in the slightest," he said honestly. "That's about all I know right now."

Natasha's lips lifted at the corner. "That's all I need."

Sherlock buried his free hand in her red hair. "Move in with me."

"Move—" Natasha blinked slowly. "What?"

"Move in with me," he repeated. "You need a home-base, of sorts. I need a flatmate. And the British Government is just about the only government that isn't targeting you for your sins against them. It's as close as you're going to get to safety," he continued quickly. "I know you must've considered it."

"It's not safe for you—"

"It's never safe for me," he argued. "If anyone could survive living with you, it's me. You know that as well as I do."

Natasha's lips parted as if she were going to say something, but Sherlock knew this look. Her pinched brows. Her narrowed eyes. He'd beaten her. "And you? I don't—"

"If anyone can survive living with me, it's you," he said almost victoriously.

"And John," she was quick to add.

"And John, but I think you'll find he's otherwise engaged nowadays," he quipped. "He's found himself a new flatmate."

Natasha propped herself up on an elbow so that her face was hovering just a short distance above his, but didn't move away. "You're serious."

"Yes," he answered without hesitation.

"Okay," she said after a moment's silence. "On one condition."

"I'm listening."

Natasha smiled and leaned down to tenderly kiss his lips. "We're sharing the bed," she informed him.

Sherlock wrapped her up in his arms and rolled her over in one swift move. He stared down into her dilated pupils with a predatory smile that rivaled her own. "Deal," he agreed.


End file.
